


Curiosity

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Miss Cracroft? Miss Cracroft who rejected you?, One Shot, Prompt Fill, Twice as I heard it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 21:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16026002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: James and Francis ask one another questions and receive surprising answers.





	Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt fill that went from drabble to almost 2,000 word fic. The prompt - "Have you satisfied your curiosity?" - came from [this list](http://alloftheprompts.tumblr.com/post/159495140697/writing-prompts).

They had come to the end of a pleasant supper, and Jopson had just departed the wardroom, having served their coffee. Ordinarily James would have taken brandy or gin for his after-dinner drink, but out of respect for Francis’s hard-won sobriety he had demurred. Things had changed so dramatically between them since the carnivale and James had no wish to disturb the equilibrium. Part of it, no doubt, was the absence of the whiskey: its numbing comfort to Francis had been unfortunately accompanied by a sharpness of tongue and a lack of discrimination about when to wield it. But then there had been the moment, in the choking claustrophobia of the tent, when they had battled side by side to free their men from the conflagration. When, in the weak sunlight of the Arctic dawn, they had walked along the line of the dead, putting names to charred flesh. Or perhaps it had been no single moment at all, but the shared burden of the coming abandonment that had altered the character of their relationship for the better. Whatever it was, they could now spend hours in conversation, laughing easily, taking comfort in one another’s company. The past winter had stripped the expedition down to its bones, and they would need to pare it further still: there was no longer room or strength to carry grudges or jealousies. 

Yet there was something that James couldn’t quite let go. It nagged at him, until he finally felt that his friendship with Francis had reached a stage strong enough to withstand the answer. Nonetheless, he tarried that evening, lingering in the companionable silence they shared as they sipped at their coffee and let the steam warm their fingers. He almost resented his curiosity. Friendship, respect: whatever this was, it was such a fragile thing, still so easy to break.

“The night the creature came aboard _Terror_ and Thomas lost his leg,” James began abruptly, keeping his gaze fixed on the pattern adorning his china cup, “I walked in while you were questioning the Inuit girl. And Thomas had just translated her question to you. _‘Why do you want to die?’_ ” He risked a glance at Francis and found him nodding.

“I don’t feel that way any more,” he said before James could continue.

“What has changed?”

Francis shrugged, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m sober now, for one thing.”

“So it was the drink? It depressed your spirits, made you melancholic?”

“Possibly.” Francis sipped his coffee. “Or the process of sobering up was so damned excruciating, it seems a waste to want to throw away a life my body put me through hell to preserve.”

James watched him closely. “No other reasons come to mind?”

One of Francis’s eyebrows arched up into the creases of his forehead. “Other than my natural tendency to stubbornness, you mean?”

“I thought perhaps…” James shook his head, made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind. Whatever the reason, I’m glad of it.” He pushed his coffee cup away and leaned forward, elbows on the table. Several moments passed before he ventured his next question.

“Miss Cracroft.” He watched Francis’s nostrils flare as he inhaled sharply. “Why did she refuse you?”

“Don’t forget to add the ‘twice,’ James,” Francis bit out, “that’s the best part--"

“I’m not asking this to provoke you, Francis. I’m merely asking because I-- I genuinely want to understand.” Francis met his gaze, eyes bright with what might have been burgeoning anger. Or surprise. It seemed to James that a willingness - almost a need - to confide warred constantly inside Francis with a natural instinct to distrust. “I saw you once, in company together at the theatre. You seemed well suited--"

Francis snorted, but the dangerous, flinty gleam had left his glance. “Did we indeed?” He spoke quietly, almost thoughtfully, lifting the cup to his lips but not taking a drink.

James spread his hands. “What happened?”

The reply didn’t come immediately. Francis picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth, then set it aside again before saying: “She told me once that I was a terrible kisser.”

James could only stare, mouth agape. “Are you serious?”

“Good God, James!” Francis cried. “You know perfectly well why she refused me! The same reason James Ross returned from Antarctica to a knighthood and I didn’t even merit an independent command!”

“Being Irish, you mean?”

Francis nodded, settling back in his chair with a sigh that seemed to take all the fire out of him as quickly as it had sprung up. “Among other considerations.”

James flexed his fingers against the smooth hardwood. “Truly, Francis, I believe Sir John regretted any role he had played--"

“But Lady Jane does not.” The blue of Francis’s eyes had gone steely, every bit as cold and unforgiving as the pack. “I would wager my life on it.”

“Be that as it may, whatever their objections Miss Cracroft was an adult. Capable of asserting her will if she had wished it. That she did not remonstrate with them, attempt to defy them… Well, it does not place her in the best of lights.”

“I will hear no word spoken against her,” Francis said softly. “She is blameless in this.”

James laughed mirthlessly, staring at his fellow captain. “How can you say so?”

“She is their ward, James!” Francis cried in turn, eyes flashing again. “She is beholden to their goodwill for her bread and board--"

“I heard she had some money of her own,” James interrupted. Francis waved it away.

“A trifling sum, inherited from her father. Not enough to live on, should Sir John see fit to cast her out. Certainly not enough to adequately supplement the meager half-pay of a Royal Navy captain--"

“Ah.” James nodded. “I see. So she was mercenary as well as cowardly.”

Francis whirled on him. “I told you, I’ll not hear--"

“Oh come, Francis! Take this woman off the pedestal you’ve placed her on. She is neither made of marble nor worthy of your worship.” James faced down Francis’s glare, driving his finger down upon the table to emphasize his words. “If she were deserving of such devotion, Francis, she would have fought for you! She _should_ have fought for you. I--" James paused, cleared his throat. “Anyone who truly cared for you, anyone who was sensible at all to the depth of your affection, would have risked anything to have you. Disapproval. Humiliation. Disgrace. And definitely the horrors of Naval half-pay.” He gave a small shrug, gaze returning to his hands. “You deserve a fighter, Francis. Nothing less.”

Francis was staring at him. Ordinarily James was a man who thrilled at being closely observed, but he found that his usual bravado deserted him under his fellow captain’s scrutiny. Perhaps he had misjudged things: the latitude afforded by Francis’s sobriety, his mood, the extent of their friendship. He braced himself for another of the Irishman’s outbursts of temper.

But instead, Francis spoke in a voice little louder than a whisper. “I thank you for that, James. I thank you more than I can say. But the truth is…” He shook his head slowly. “The truth is, she was right.”

James’s head jerked up sharply. “Don’t you dare, Francis. I won’t sit here and listen to you speak ill of yourself--"

“No, no, not about that.” Francis held up a hand to forestall him. “About being a captain’s wife. She knew, James. I tried to deny it, but she knew. My two drawers.” His gaze was distant, the small smile on his lips rueful but amused.

“I don’t follow.”

Francis glanced at him. “I lied to her, James. I told her there was no where else I would rather be than on dry land, with her. And maybe in that moment I believed it. But I’m a captain. This--" Francis raised his hands a little, indicating the ship around them, “This is my home. And not this unnatural stillness upon the ice, but the heave and roll of the sea at its wildest. It’s in my blood and there’s no getting it out.” Francis smiled at him, nodded. “You understand, James. Perhaps there’s no one else in the world who could. We hate this, these straits we find ourselves in here, but truthfully? Where else would we really wish to be, you and I?”

“To a captain, his ship is the world entire,” James said. “But we are preparing to walk away from these worlds. And if we succeed, Francis--"

“ _When_ ,” Francis insisted.

“When. When we return to England — will you renew your suit?” James found he could not hold Francis’s gaze as he asked it, so he turned his attention to the bottom button of his waistcoat. “If she should stand on the pier awaiting your arrival, has our long sojourn in the ice cured your longing for the sea sufficiently to make another attempt?”

Rubbing at his chin, Francis thought for awhile. “I don’t know, James. I haven’t thought that far ahead.” Another pause. “I do-- I suppose I will always esteem her highly.”

James nodded. Perhaps it was the lack of after-dinner spirits, but his mood felt strangely depressed. “And I’m afraid I will continue to think her a fool.” Before Francis could remonstrate with him, James rose to his feet, his chair scraping loudly on the floorboards. “I had best return to _Erebus_.” He grabbed his greatcoat and began to dress for the walk. “Please give my compliments to Mr. Diggle.”

Francis gave a bark of a laugh. “That’s it, then? Just like that?” His tone was mocking. “You’ve laid Francis Crozier bare and now you’re off, to remain a man of mystery yourself? It hardly seems fair.” He arched an eyebrow slyly. “Do tell me, James, before you go: have you satisfied your curiosity?”

James paused, fingers halfway into his mittens. He looked at Francis, still sitting at the head of the table, an infuriating smirk on his lips, eyes shining almost mischievously in the light of the lamps. To hell with it. James squared his jaw and strode towards him, wondering even as he walked how could he feel so reckless without a drop of brandy or gin? 

“Not on one point,” James said. He had time to register the widening of his fellow captain’s eyes as he took Francis’s face in his hands. Then his mouth was on Francis’s, his lips meeting a warm resistance that subtly, softly melted away. James pressed and Francis, with a little whimper of surprise, opened his mouth. His hand, which had gone instinctively to James’s side, clutched at the fabric of his coat. There was a tantalizing moment of reciprocation, slick heat on heat, sweet needful suction, and the whispered friction of two stubbled cheeks brushing together. Then James abruptly pulled away.

“To the list of things I accuse Miss Sophie Cracroft of being,” James said, his voice haughty but breathless, “I must add that of a liar.”

And thus, with smug satisfaction, he took his leave.


End file.
